


Come Pick Me Up

by riyku



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riyku/pseuds/riyku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> It's been a few years since the show ended, but there are some things that are impossible to leave behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Pick Me Up

**Author's Note:**

>  Written for this [prompt](http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/4508.html?thread=5417372#t5417372) at [](http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/profile) **[blindfold_spn](http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/).**

Paparazzi stalk the gate with telephoto lenses, and security guards mill around the expansive front driveway with wires curled around their ears, talking into their wrists.

This is not Jensen’s scene. He’s got some leftover take out and a six-pack in the fridge at home and a 5 a.m. call time in the morning. He also has a pushy agent with decent connections and not much lined up after the indie short film he’s working on right now.

That’s why he’s here, rubbing elbows with studio execs and A-listers, weaving through a room full of fake plastic noses and spray tans.

The house belongs to some producer. It’s situated on the side of one of the Hollywood Hills, and it’s huge. Lavish doesn’t even start to describe it. Jensen’s man enough to admit to a flash of jealousy when he walks onto the back patio. White Christmas lights reflect onto the still, glassy surface of an infinity pool, and the view of the LA city skyline is nothing short of spectacular.

People are gathered around the pool in small clusters, elegant fluted champagne glasses in hand. A loud, almost snorting burst of laughter rises up from a group seated around a table near the house. The sound instantly slingshots Jensen backward to half a decade ago. Back to long, freezing Vancouver nights, and never ending work days with too little sleep in between. To Sundays off, football, cold beer and hot pizza.

He spots Jared immediately. Jared’s head is thrown back, still laughing, legs crossed and hands clasped together. The guy looks good. Great, in fact. His skin is tanned and he fills out his black button down shirt just as well as he did five years ago. He looks relaxed, happy, as at home in this place as he would be anywhere else.

Jensen finds himself smiling. He can’t help it. Jared’s laugh is more than infectious. As far as Jensen is concerned, it’s something closer to Pavlovian; he hears it and is hardwired to respond.

Jensen is only one step closer to the table when Jared notices him, Jared’s chair almost tipping backward in his rush to stand up. A few long strides swallow the space between them, and then Jared’s colliding with him. Long arms wrap around Jensen’s shoulders and send him off balance. The scotch in Jensen’s glass spills over his fingers and splashes onto Jared’s shirt, but Jared doesn’t seem to mind and only holds on tighter. Jensen buries his nose in Jared’s neck, his free hand curling into Jared’s silk shirt. It’s not a guy’s hug; there’s no back pounding, they don’t talk their way through it or tilt their hips back, and they hold onto each other a handful of seconds longer than perhaps they ought to. Jared’s chest is warm and solid against Jensen’s own, and he hates it a little when Jared lets go.

“Jensen. _Goddamn_ ,” Jared says. His thousand-watt grin shines down on Jensen. The sight of it makes Jensen’s heart clench. “Never thought I’d see you at a place like this.”

“Yeah, well.” Jensen shrugs and Jared gives him a knowing nod. It’s comforting, the knowledge that years apart haven’t erased Jared’s ability to read him, catch hold of the meaning behind a shrug or a nod or a small change in his expression.

They wander toward the railing, giving each other the thumbnail version of the past couple of years. Jared’s been shooting a high-budget war flick in the South Pacific, which accounts for the tan. Jensen’s been playing the part of a down and out painter. The director is fresh out of Berkeley, a great kid. They’re learning a lot from each other.

“It’s a labor of love,” Jensen tells him.

“That would explain the—,” Jared makes an all-encompassing gesture in Jensen’s direction.

Jensen nods. His hair is a little longer, unevenly cut and purposefully tousled. He’s a bit thinner than Dean Winchester was in his later years. Not by much, but his cheekbones are more pronounced and he’s had to cinch his belt a couple of notches tighter.

With a dusty old boot propped on the rail, Jared stares toward the distant cityscape. For his part, Jensen is a lot less interested in smog-hazy skyscrapers, and more interested in the curve of Jared’s back as he leans against the railing, the subtle tilt of Jared’s hip in Jensen’s direction, and the way he keeps sneaking sideways looks.

A waiter moves past, and Jensen replaces his empty tumbler with a glass of red wine. It’s undeniable, the hinting spark that flashes in Jared’s eyes as he watches Jensen drink. So is the slow build of heat in Jensen’s stomach that has nothing to do with the scotch or the wine and everything to do with the way Jared sets his teeth thoughtfully into his bottom lip.

“Never thought we’d end up here,” Jared muses.

Jensen knows what Jared is really saying, but decides to hide behind a joke anyway. “It’s a nice house,” he points out. “Keeps the rain off.”

Jared’s mouth twists, but he lets it slide. “You don’t know the half of it. C’mon,” he says. “You’ve gotta see this.”

He leads Jensen through the crowd of people and toward the back of the house, into a labyrinth of hallways and staircases, party noise growing more and more dim. He lets them in through a set of double doors.

It’s the master bedroom, if the huge California king set in the center of the room is anything to go by. The room is enormous, all heavy, garish tapestries and low lighting. Built-in enclaves dot the walls, and inside each one is some sort of antiquity: gold oil lamps, cracked vases, small casted statues, a hammered silver circlet with blue lapis set in an intricate pattern. Jensen whistles low. The room looks like it fell off of a Turkish caravan and into a dragon’s lair. It’s impressive.

“I heard that this room alone is insured for a cool hundred million,” Jared says, bending to inspect an artifact that resembles an ancient coffee pot, made glinting gold. “You oughta see the bathroom. It’s bigger than my first apartment. There’s a waterfall and everything.”

“How did you know about this?” Jensen asks.

Jared gives an offhanded answer. “Worked with the guy on a movie a few years ago.” He’s slowly circling the room, almost back to where Jensen is leaning against the closed doors. “It was the one I did right after the show ended. God, it was awful.”

“I’ve done worse.” Jensen’s attempt at hiding his smile isn’t all that successful.

“I sent you an invitation to the premiere,” Jared reminds him.

“I know.”

“You didn’t show.”

“I know that, too.”

Jared has come full circle, and he’s staring down at Jensen in a way that makes Jensen curl his fingers against the polished wood of the door. Jared’s hair spills into his face, and he’s wearing a distracted smile. His voice is low when he speaks. “It’s good to see you again. So good.”

Jensen licks his lips. He wants to kiss Jared. It would be easy. Jared’s already halfway there.

Crowding in close, Jared reaches behind Jensen’s back, mutters a quiet, “Fuck it,” and thumbs the lock. “No use acting like it’s not gonna happen,” Jared says, framing each side of Jensen’s face with his palms flat on the door. He shoves a thigh between Jensen’s legs and shifts his weight, rocking into him.

The blood rushing through Jensen’s body makes everything else sound distant, far away, his gasp barely there as Jared rips Jensen’s shirt over his head. Jared kisses him, his mouth hot and his tongue demanding. Jensen can feel the sound Jared makes in the back his throat more than hear it. It’s a vibration that sends Jensen’s mouth tingling and makes him instantly, achingly hard.

This shouldn’t be happening. It was hard enough to stop in the first place. Almost impossible, and besides, this is LA. There are prying eyes everywhere, and they’ve both seen too many people snagged in the Hollywood rumor mill and get spit out bloody.

None of that matters a bit when Jared shoves Jensen’s shoulders hard against the wall, pinning him there. He licks a stripe along Jensen’s jaw, sucks on his earlobe and whispers to him, his voice pitched deep and breathy. “Fuck, I want you.”

He takes Jensen by the wrist and presses Jensen’s hand to his dick. Jensen feels the hard length of him, the flesh hot even through his pants. Jensen palms him harder, and Jared hisses between his teeth, starts working on the buttons of his shirt. A sheen of sweat is already forming on Jared’s skin, and Jared has no sooner gotten his shirt open when Jensen starts mouthing at the hollow of his throat, along the rise of his collarbone, down his chest.

Jensen starts to slide down the wall, fingers working at Jared’s belt, but a hand to the center of his chest stops him. “Not so fast,” Jared says. He spins Jensen around against the wall, kissing and biting at the back of Jensen’s neck.

The wall’s cool surface is grounding. Jensen puts his hands to it, fingers spread wide. He presses his forehead against the wall and concentrates on the smooth texture beneath his palms as Jared yanks on his belt and lets his pants fall. The cool air is a shock on Jensen’s dick, a counterpoint to the heat of Jared all along his back. He’s close, too close. Jared just needs to touch him and he’ll come.

It gets even harder to hold back as Jared backs off and kicks gently at Jensen’s ankles, urging them further apart. Jensen feels exposed, wide open and on display. He goes lightheaded with it, a pulse of precome dripping down his shaft. Jared’s tongue is on the small of Jensen’s back now and he’s moving lower, holding handfuls of Jensen’s ass and squeezing. Jensen’s whole body begs for release and Jared has barely touched him.

“Holy fuck,” Jensen gasps, jabbing forward with the first touch of Jared’s tongue against his hole.

Jared’s got one finger circling him, teasing and light. “If you want me to stop...” he trails off.

Jensen slaps the wall, curls his fingers into fists. Pictures rattle on their hooks. “No,” Jensen spits out. “Please, no.”

Another lapping stroke of Jared’s tongue, and Jared starts to laugh. It’s wicked. “You always do end up begging.” He presses two fingers inside, and Jensen arches his back against the burn of it. It eases off when Jared licks at him again.

“You,” Jensen pants. “You’re the only one who can--” The words cut off when all the air rushes from his lungs. His knees go weak and he has to lock them in place to keep from crumpling down. Every nerve in his body zings to life and the edges of his vision start to white out. “Oh _god_.”

“Looks like I found it.” Jared sounds smug. A second burst of sensation washes out the first. Jensen’s moaning loudly, cursing by the time he comes back to himself. His balls feel heavy, tight, he grips his own cock and groans as he hooks his thumb and fingers around it. Everything’s all jacked up, tangled and dizzy in his head, and Jared--fucking _Jared_ \--has three fingers in his ass at this point and Jensen just needs to get off. Now.

Jared crawls back up along Jensen’s body, his fingers working faster, his other hand holds onto Jensen shoulder in a bruising grip. Jensen rocks into him, shudders when Jared’s fingers slip out, and he can feel the hot press of Jared’s dick against his rim. Jared ruts against him, riding the crease of his ass, slick with spit and sweat. “C’mon,” Jensen begs, pushing against Jared, clenching up when Jared’s dick catches on his rim. “Stop fucking around. Fucking _do_ something.”

“You’re goddamn bossy, you know that?” Jared says, without any real heat.

He walks away, and Jensen’s back is cold without him there. Jensen rests his head on his forearm, tightly closing his eyes, struggling to get himself under control and listening to the sound of Jared moving around in the room. Rustling noises, drawers opening and closing.

“Turn around,” Jared commands, his footsteps getting closer.

Jensen obeys. “Who’s bossy now?” he starts, but the words cut off. It’s obscene, the sight of Jared wearing nothing more than his open black shirt, his cock flushed and jutting up toward his stomach. He’s rolling a condom down his length and slicking himself up.

Jared smells like lube and latex, he tastes like expensive champagne when Jensen seals their mouths together. Jared gets a slippery hand behind Jensen’s thigh and lifts it up to hook it around his hip.

Jensen starts to slide down when Jared hooks his other leg, the skin of his back on fire as it stutters along the wall. He wraps his arms around the back of Jared’s neck and hangs on. “You’re fucking picking me up?” Jensen stammers. He has to admit that it’s fucking hot, the grip that Jared has on his ass and the shift of his muscles in his chest as he holds Jensen there, trapped between the wall and Jared’s body.

“I can still bench press two-eighty,” he says, his mouth going slack a second later when he slams inside of Jensen with a sharp stab of his hips. It makes Jensen cry out, his back colliding hard with the wall. Something nearby falls with a clatter to the ground.

Jared sets an insane rhythm of short, quick thrusts. His breath whistles fast through his open mouth. The walls are vibrating with the steady slam of Jensen’s back against them. In a distant part of his mind, Jensen worries that anyone in a three block radius knows exactly what they’re doing in here. But thoughts like that are hard to hang onto, with the feeling of Jared inside of him, so deep and hard and perfect it almost hurts.

He’s missed this. So much. More than anything.

Jensen’s body is begging for release, and he drops a hand to his dick, starts jerking off in a counterpoint to Jared’s thrusts.

Words start to punctuate Jared’s groans. They don’t make sense, but Jensen gets the gist from the way Jared speeds up, his eyes locked on Jensen’s cock as Jensen swipes a thumb over the head, and jerks off even quicker.

Jensen slams his back hard against the wall when he comes, his vision spotty and biting off a shout. He clamps down hard on Jared’s cock, his muscles spasming and he paints the skin between them with come.

Jared loses it. His knees buckle and he takes them down in a barely controlled fall. The burn of the wall along Jensen’s shoulders brings him part way back to the here and now. Jensen gains leverage, rolling his hips in a slow circle as Jared keeps thrusting up into him, buried balls deep and clawing at Jensen’s thighs and hipbones.

Jensen frames Jared’s face with his hands, thumbs rubbing along Jared’s cheekbones. He kisses him, fucks his tongue deep into Jared’s mouth. Jared bucks up, lifting Jensen inches higher, moving their tongues together in a desperate, starved slide. He breathes a growl into Jensen’s mouth and comes, a death grip on the small of Jensen’s back and his whole body shivering.

Jensen breaks the kiss, drops his head backward against the wall, drawing huge breaths in through his open mouth. His legs ache with the awkward angle and his feet are starting to go numb. He shifts some, a slow thrust of his hips. It makes Jared’s breath catch in his throat and his hips shove up in a small stutter. He’s still inside of Jensen, getting soft. Jared reeks of sweat and spunk. It’s a good smell on him.

Jared blinks, and Jensen can see the daze starting to clear. The skin of Jared’s face carries a flush, his mouth is kiss-swollen. Jensen recognizes the shape of his own teeth in a bruise starting to form on the rounded muscle of Jared’s shoulder.

Jared looks beautiful. He always has.

Jared’s smile is small, tempered with something close to sadness. He presses a thumb to Jensen’s lower lip. The touch is so familiar, and it’s not until it happens that Jensen realizes he’s been waiting for it.

“Are we starting this again?” Jensen asks.

“It never stopped. I don’t think it’s ever going to.”

 

~fin~

Thanks for reading.


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